


Swallow my breath

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hand Job, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13577991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: “How else are they to get clean?” asked Regis, drawing his chair closer. “Even without the blood, they looked as though they could use a soak. How long have you been wearing them?”“Couple of months.” The witcher looked down at his wound, grazing pale fingers over the puckered flesh. A fine crust had formed where the skin came together. “Might as well have been wearing a silk nightgown for all the good it did me.”“That can always be arranged,” said Regis, and he had intended it as a joke, but it came out unexpectedly sincere. He surprised himself; after over three centuries of life, he’d assumed he had all his sexual inclinations worked out, and then a pretty witcher comes along…A younger Regis, fresh from his fifty year reformation, comes upon an injured Geralt and decides to nurse him back to health. But not entirely for the right reasons.





	Swallow my breath

**Author's Note:**

> Here's that self-indulgent young!Regis & Young!Geralt AU I kept on babbling about! Granted, it's uh... more youngER Regis who has only been fully reformed for a year or so, because he's just slightly nicer this way and more pleasant to write. He hasn't come out of the ground completely changed, though; that seemed unrealistic to me, so he's still a bit of a dick. But he's a bit of a dick that wants to change and be better, and eventually does!

Surrounding the crypt Regis and his comrades sheltered in, there was a vast, lush forest teeming with wildlife. In his spare time – something Regis had in abundance these days – he liked to go on walks through it. When soberness permitted, of course; he wouldn’t risk going in there completely blitzed, least he run into a nest of Endrega and end up mangled. Fortunately, he rarely drank excessively, these days. Ever since being maimed and buried by a party of enraged villagers and spending a good fifty years pulling himself back together, he had been trying to wean himself off of blood. He was having… some degree of success. He found it much easier to abstain when he wasn’t in the company of other vampires, so he had been spending more and more time outside the crypt. But it was still a slow process. Drinking had become so habitual for him that he couldn’t stop cold turkey, even after fifty years of being stuck beneath the earth without a drop. He had, however, managed to limit himself to one drink per day, and within a few years, he hoped he wouldn’t feel the need to touch a single drop ever again.

On this occasion, he wasn’t exactly sober, but nor was he inebriated enough not to be able to indulge in a walk. The taste of his last drink lingered on his tongue as he strode through the brush. It had been a young maiden, no older than twenty, and she had tasted delightful. The younger ones always did. With age came a bitterness that Regis found unpalatable (though he’d heard some older vampires preferred it). He was ashamed to have given in to his vices yet again, but his walks always went a long way in cleansing him of his guilt. The sights, and smells, and sounds were a pleasant distraction from his personal failings.

He crept further into the forest. This deep in, there were beasts to be wary of. Nekkers, wolves, bears, and Endrega were most common, and Regis preferred not to clash with them, if only to spare his clothes. On the other side of the wilderness was a village, and one Regis’ friends frequented to claim maidens for the pack. Being several miles from the village, the location of their crypt was very fortuitous, as very rarely would the humans visit. They had built a fresh crypt long ago, closer to the village, and only on the odd occasion would the coroner and gravedigger drop by to bury someone in a family grave.

It was very unlike the coroner or gravedigger and any other villager to journey through the forest, however, so Regis was surprised when he heard faint breathing coming from among a tight cluster of trees. It didn’t have the haggard quality of a nekker, nor did it remind Regis of any other monsters that lurked among the trees. He advanced on it, eager to find out it source.

The scent of blood reached him long before he located the body. It was an old man – no, Regis realized. No, not an old man. A boy with milky white hair. An odd pairing, but he saw the wolf medallion resting on the boy’s sternum and figured it had to be a consequence of those mutations witchers were famed for. He’d never met a witcher before, and he had to wonder if all witchers ended up with such vibrant white hair.

Extending from the boy’s waist to his chest was a deep, bloody cut that had turned the brown of his vest red. And lying not far from him were the remains of a Leshen, which explained how he’d come to receive such a grievous injury.

Regis bent down to better inspect him. For a Witcher, he seemed awful small and sinewy, and he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. His face was almost as pale of his hair, with just a hint of colour on his lips and the high rises of his cheekbones. His eyes were closed. Regis had heard witchers had queer, cat-like irises that glowed in the evening, and he hoped he would get to see them later. For now, however, he was content to appreciate the boy’s other unique features. Regis was by no means a man guided by lust, but he had been lonely as of late and the boy looked very pretty with his long white hair and alabaster skin. The splash of blood helped complete the scene. Perhaps, upon waking with his wound cleaned and sutured, the boy would feel inclined show him some gratitude. He’d heard witchers could be quite promiscuous... might’ve been a rumour perpetuated by religious fanatics to further portray them as monsters, but Regis was willing to take his chances.

He gathered the boy into his arms and heaved him up off the forest floor. It was testament to his self-control that he didn’t start sucking at the boys wound the moment he was in proximity of it. Prior to the debacle with the villagers, he would had drained the poor thing and left him to expire on the forest floor; but he was no longer that person, he told himself. He was better than that, and abstaining would only get easier as time moved on.

As an afterthought, he grabbed the boy’s swords off the ground, careful not to touch the silver with his bare hands, and headed back toward the crypt. There was a small hut a little ways away that was just as abandoned as the crypt itself. Regis had never been in there, but his friends liked to dwell in there sometimes.

He monitored the boy’s heartrate as he walked. Should he expire on the way, it would be an excuse for Regis to have a small taste ( _just_ a taste) and leave him to rot among the detritus. An awful waste of a pretty face, but Regis was no miracle worker.

Fortunately, the boy lasted throughout the journey and continued taking in shallow breaths as Regis laid him in bed and sutured his wound with twine typically used to repair clothes. It would have to do for now. Having no need for them, Regis didn’t keep any medical supplies on hand.

While the witcher was slumbering, he sat on the edge of the bed and sorted through the contents of the witcher’s various pouches. He’d barely a coin to his name and a scant few morsels to eat. The potions Regis uncovered didn’t look at all familiar to him. At the bottom of the pouches was some flint, a sewing kit, herbs, and a couple of empty flasks. Regis dumped the meagre belongings of the witcher onto a nearby desk and then returned to the bed and worked the witcher out of his boots, trousers, vest, shirt, and underwear, dropping them into a bucket of water to get out as much blood as possible. He licked smudges of it off his fingers and had to sit outside for a good ten minutes to subdue the terrible hunger that overcame him. The witcher’s blood was just as unique as the rest of him, and just as appealing, too.

When he returned, the witcher hadn’t moved an inch. Regis situated himself at the desk and made himself comfortable, settling in for a long, uneventful night.

It wasn’t until the first rays of light started to peer in through the window that the witcher stirred. Groaning, the boy peeled open his eyes and attempted to rise onto his elbows, only to falter at the pain in his abdomen.

“Which one of these is a healing potion?” asked Regis, brandishing the numerous potions the boy’d had on his person. The witcher’s head snapped around to face him, expression wary. “Oh, do not fret, little wolf,” said Regis, smiling and bringing the potions closer. “I am a friend. Now, which one of these is a healing potion?”

“The yellow one.”

Regis uncorked the indicated potion and brought it to the witcher’s lips, only to have it snatched out of his hand. The boy drank it without pause. Almost choked on it, too. Served him right for not accepting the assistance he so clearly needed.

Licking the remnants of the potion off his lips, the witcher cast him another glance. Less wary, this time. “I assume I have you to thank for my life?”

“You do indeed,” said Regis, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Well, thank you,” said the witcher. “Most would have left me there, upon realizing my trade.”

“I’ve no ill-will toward witchers,” said Regis, which wasn’t entirely honest, but nor was it entirely untrue. He hadn’t yet been at the end of a witchers sword and thus didn’t harbour the hostility towards witchers that many of his companions did. “I find them quite a novelty, in fact,” he continued. “Those yellow eyes you sport are quite lovely. And the hair – forgive my impertinence, but do all witchers have white hair?”

“Just me,” said the witcher. While wincing, the witcher threw his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. His legs wobbled precariously. “I won’t impose on your hospitality any longer, but I shall return to give you a share of my coin to compensate for your generosity.”

“I do not need your coin.” Regis stood and gently eased him back onto the mattress. “And in the state you’re in, you would not get far. I insist you stay until you have recovered. Witchers have accelerated healing, do they not? So you won’t be off the path for long.”

The witcher reluctantly returned to the mattress, then looked down, and seemed to finally realize he was nude. This didn’t bother Regis in the least; he’d seen more naked bodies than he cared to remember, but the witcher immediately flustered and covered himself with the sheet.

“Where are my clothes?”

Regis gestured to the bucket. The witcher regarded it miserably.

“They’re wet.”

“How else are they to get clean?” asked Regis, drawing his chair closer. “Even without the blood, they looked as though they could use a soak. How long have you been wearing them?”

“Couple of months.” The witcher looked down at his wound, grazing pale fingers over the puckered flesh. A fine crust had formed where the skin came together. “Might as well have been wearing a silk nightgown for all the good it did me.”

“That can always be arranged,” said Regis, and he _had_ intended it as a joke, but it came out unexpectedly sincere. He surprised himself; after over three centuries of life, he’d assumed he had all his sexual inclinations worked out, and then a pretty witcher comes along…

The witcher frowned at him. “Pardon?”

“If you would like a silk nightgown, that can be arranged,” he clarified, unabashed.

The witcher stared at him for a moment more, then lay back down in bed. “No, thank you.”

“I can lend you a shirt, at the very least,” said Regis as he stood from his chair. “I have one on the clothes line. And some trousers, too, if you don’t mind a bit of dampness.” The lie came to him easily; it wasn’t the first time he’d lied to a human. He’d gotten quite good at it. “Undergarments, too, but I expect you don’t want to wear those second-hand.”

The witcher nodded. “Better than being naked.”

“Alright,” said Regis, picking up the bucket. “And I’ll put these out while I’m at it. Rest up, witcher.”

“Geralt.”

“Hm?” Regis glanced over his shoulder.

“Geralt. My name.”

“Emiel Regis,” said Regis, keeping his name short out of courtesy. “Pleasure to meet you, Geralt.”

Once outside, Regis didn’t so much hang Geralt’s clothes, as throw them over a low-hanging tree branch and hope a critter wouldn’t go running off with them. He then retrieved a shirt and trousers from his corner of the crypt and returned to the hut, where he found the witcher on the floor in a puddle of limbs, groaning and writhing. Regis sighed and abandoned the clothes to help the witcher back into bed.

“Now, that wasn’t very smart, was it,” admonished Regis. “You’re going to pull your stitches if you keep that up.”

“My waterskin,” mumbled Geralt.

“Ah, my apologies. I should have put that closer.” Regis retrieved it for him and the witcher proceeded to suck the contents down so greedily that it was almost comical. A little sad, too. Geralt didn’t have the appearance of someone who got to eat and drink with any regularity. “Now,” said Regis, reaching for the shirt. “Try to lift your arms and I’ll help you get this on.”

Geralt re-corked his waterskin. “I can do that myself,” he said, extending a hand. There were spots of blood on it. Regis swallowed and focused on the boy’s face.

“I sincerely doubt that.” He raised the shirt. “Arms, please.”

After a moments contemplation, and some scowling, Geralt did as he was told. He didn’t manage to raise them far before the pain prompted him to recoil, so it took some struggling for Regis to get the shirt over his head. Regis didn’t much mind. He enjoyed the proximity. Now that he wasn’t in dire straits, the witcher’s skin was lovely and warm, so unlike the chill Regis was used to. He’d always liked that about humans, how delightfully warm they could be. Their blood shared that quality, and Regis had gloried in that just as much as he had the resulting inebriation.

The shirt wasn’t quite his size. A little too big, but Regis found that endearing.

The trousers, Geralt managed to put on himself.

“There you are,” said Regis. “Now, is there anything else you need?”

“Painkillers,” was Geralt’s immediate answer.

“Of course. Unfortunately, I don’t have any on hand, and otherwise procuring some would take a considerable amount of time.” He had a decent repertoire of herbal knowledge and could have brewed a painkiller, but the primary ingredient, Celandine, wasn’t native to this area, and what few petals were among Geralt’s collection of herbs wasn’t enough for even a small brew.

The witcher visibly hesitated before speaking again. “I don’t wish to tire your hospitality, but would you happen to have some alcohol? It works just as well.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Regis, who had never, in his several centuries of life, tasted a single drop of human liquor. It had no effect on vampires, so there was little point to the activity. “I could help get your mind off it, at least?” he offered.

The witcher lowered himself back to the mattress. “I will not be able to sleep in this state. A distraction would be welcome.”

“I’m happy to provide.” Regis slid closer, pulling the covers up as he went. He snaked a hand beneath them. “Please, tell me if I’m being too forward.”

The witcher’s gaze followed the journey of his hand until it slipped out of sight. “What-?” He jumped slightly when Regis’ nails grazed his hip. “ _What_?” he said again, louder, turning an incredulous look on Regis.

“I’m providing a distraction,” said Regis simply, but he watched Geralt carefully for his reaction. He wasn’t about to force himself upon the boy. He had been exceptionally cruel towards humans in his past, but never in this regard; it was beneath him to force himself on something so weak, and particularly in a situation where they were completely at his mercy. The fact that humans often regarded vampires as sexual deviants who forced themselves upon hapless women disturbed him.

The witcher didn’t push him away. “Not what I expected.”

“Would you like me to stop?” asked Regis, resting his fingers on Geralt’s leg. “You only need tell me.”

“Mnm.”

Regis chuckled. “That’s not an answer.”

The witcher pursed his lips, looking away. “I’ll be rather annoyed, should you stop.”

“Better.”

Regis delved a little further and palmed the hot bulge of Geralt’s cock. He’d barely even touched the boy and he was already noticeably aroused.

“Have you never been with a man before?” asked Regis, his tone gentle.

“No,” answered Geralt. He choked on a gasp when Regis flipped the shirt aside and reached into his trousers, grasping his cock.

“A woman?” Regis asked.

Geralt nodded jerkily.

Regis smiled, a hint of fang visible. He didn’t expect the witcher was focused enough to notice it. His gaze was fixed on the wall, his expression vague and distant. “So those rumours about witchers are true, hm?”

“It was a prostitute,” Geralt breathed, and considering the wince that followed, he probably hadn’t meant to say it. “Women wouldn’t touch me, otherwise,” he added in a mumble.

“Why ever not?” Regis stroked him slowly, languidly beneath the sheets, taking pleasure in the breathy sounds the witcher made. “You’re an attractive man.”

“I’m not,” mumbled the witcher.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t,” said Regis, sliding a thumb over the head of Geralt’s cock to collect a bead of pre-come. The witcher responded by closing his eyes and swallowing, hands coiling around the bedsheets. He seemed very sensitive. The sexually inexperienced weren’t known to last long, so Regis would have to be careful, draw this out as long as possible. “That is,” he continued. “Offering sex within a few hours of meeting someone. One’s appearance isn’t a hinderance to a long-term relationship.”

Geralt snorted, folding a forearm over his eyes. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

“It was more for myself, really,” said Regis, and he leaned over Geralt as he spoke, close enough to smell the forest on his pallid skin. He explored the fine stubble on Geralt’s jaw with his lips, then dipped down to his throat, his teeth grazing the pale stretch of skin there – not his vampiric teeth of course; he wasn’t foolish enough to think the witcher wouldn’t notice the points of his laterals.

The witchers breaths shallowed. He licked into the hollow of Geralt’s neck and felt his pulse point thrumming against his tongue and his own breathing started to soften. Regis knew, by now, that his eyes must have gone completely dark, as they always did when he was aroused. It was hard to distinguish his pupils at the best of times, but now that would be utterly unperceivable.

Geralt’s cock became hard and heavy in his palm. He maintained a relaxed stroke even when Geralt jerked his hips up in an effort to increase the friction and teased him further by thumbing the underside of the velvety head, which appeared to be where Geralt was most sensitive. Each time he touched that area, Geralt’s cock would twitch, and his fingers and toes would curl, and he would make a soft involuntary sound through his clenched teeth that aroused Regis beyond measure. He caught one of Geralt’s little sounds as he licked into the man’s mouth, dragging his tongue over his molars and palate and incisors, tasting the remnants of the yellow potion on his teeth. It wasn’t a palatable taste, but he didn’t care; Geralt had started to whimper and Regis was dizzy with lust.

A wetness filled his hand. Dislodging, Regis glanced over his shoulder at Geralt’s cock, and sighed. Milky fluid stained the black of his gloves and coat sleeve. He’d underestimated Geralt’s endurance. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and began to clean the mess.

“Sorry,” mumbled Geralt, who watched him work with an endearing sheepishness. “Been a while.”

“It’s quite alright,” said Regis, despite his overwhelming disappointment. He threw the handkerchief into a nearby waste bin and rose from the bed. “I hope that alleviated your discomfort some.”

“Mhm.” Geralt wiped away the sweat that had accumulated on his neck and thighs with the bedsheets, then inched himself back onto his elbows. “Will you need some help, too?”

“What do you mean?” asked Regis.

Geralt opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking impeccably stupid, then mustered up enough courage to finally say, “You’re aroused. Do you want me to help?”

Regis smiled. Witcher’s had a keen sense of smell – he could probably smell the musk. “I do not wish to risk harming you further.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Geralt, shuffling further up the bed, until his shoulders were against the wall. “Just get on the bed. Let me help.”

“That eager, are you?”

“Don’t try and embarrass me, old man. I can still withdraw my offer.”

Regis scoffed. “Old man…” Sure, he was several centuries old, but in vampire terms, that was still quite young. “Very well,” he said, returning to the bed. “I trust you won’t overexert yourself.”

“I know my limits.”

“Mm, doubtful,” said Regis, and shifted further up the bed, guided by the witcher’s groping hands. The boy didn’t stop pulling Regis until he was straddling his chest. “Witcher’s aren’t known to recognize limits, least of all their own,” he added, observing in rapt attention as those long, pale fingers reached beneath his coat and unbuckled his belt. He slid his fingers into the boys long white hair, stroking at the base of his skull. “But if you start to hurt, I expect you to stop.”

“Alright,” mumbled Geralt, freeing Regis’ cock. He coiled a hand around the thick appendage and wetted his lips, staring at it with something like interest. Regis, for his part, practically keeled over. “Little big,” said Geralt, undeterred by Regis’ obvious discomposure. “Doubt I’m going to be able to do much.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage,” breathed Regis, reaching to steady himself on the wall. It took incredible restraint not to pull the boy onto his cock and go at it, like he would have any other partner. This was his first human partner and though witchers were a more durable strain of human, they still had pesky little things like gag reflexes and fragile throats. Other vampires, on the other hand… it wasn’t uncommon for sexual escapades to get quite frenzied and passionate, particularly between the more bestial of his kind.

“What do I do about the teeth?” asked Geralt, bringing the head of the cock to his lips. It made it hard for Regis to follow what was being said.

“Mhm... well...” Vampires had the ability to control the length of their teeth. He wasn’t sure what humans did in this scenario. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had teeth on his cock, anyway; that was always a risk when lying with the more inexperienced of vampires.

“Alright,” said Geralt, and opened his mouth wide, swallowing as much of Regis’ cock into it as he could. The breath went barrelling out of Regis and he tightened his grip of Geralt’s hair, holding him in place.

He hadn’t expected his mouth to be so wonderfully _hot_. It was burning, sweltering, and nothing at all like the oral he’d received from his coldblooded brethren. He groaned past clenched teeth and rocked slowly into Geralt’s mouth, careful not to get carried away. His tongue was smooth and slick and Geralt tried – and failed – to slide it around the circumference of Regis’ cock. His efforts to lick every part of it was enough to make Regis’ legs shake. He was clearly trying his best to please, even if he didn’t know what exactly he should be doing, and his enthusiasm was _delectable_.

Regis bit his lip and closed his eyes, and he didn’t pay any mind when blood began to well up under the sharp points of his teeth. He bit even harder when the witcher pulled him in deep enough for his cock to hit the soft back of his throat. The witcher didn’t even gag. Either he had a very weak gag reflex, or the mutations had stripped him of it; Either way, Regis took this as permission to start thrusting in and out of Geralt’s mouth and occasionally dare to press Geralt right to his pelvis. If he minded having Regis cock sheathed fully in his throat, he gave no indication of it; quite the opposite, in fact, as he sucked and licked with increased vigour.

Embarrassing thought it was, with Geralt being so enthusiastic and so clearly enjoying himself, Regis wasn’t likely to last long. He could already feel the tension gathering in his abdomen. When Geralt tentatively began to stroke the base of his cock with both hands, he completely threw out the possibility of lasting even a few more minutes.

“You’re too good,” he said, voice low and guttural, bordering on animalistic. “You make me want to keep you.”

He could, if he really wanted to. He could make the witcher stay. Take him off his path, keep him in the cabin forever and ever.

But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t _that_ much of a monster.

The witcher said nothing – couldn’t say anything, but he gave a couple of hard sucks and Regis groaned and bent over him, holding him in place as he climaxed. The witcher obediently swallowed it all down, and Regis finally cracked open his eyes to peer down at him. The way the witcher was looking up at him, flushed and sweaty and dishevelled, his mouth pink around his cock, could have made him hard all over again had he not just finished.

It took him a good minute to finally orientate himself and untangle his fingers from Geralt’s hair. “That was incredible, little wolf,” he breathed, withdrawing and tucking his now wet and flaccid cock back into his trousers. He would clean off later.

The witcher swallowed a couple of times before speaking. His voice was hoarse. “You’re bleeding,” was the first thing out of his mouth. “Your lip, I mean.”

Regis touched his fingertips to the corner of his mouth and found tacky blood there. The wound he’d bitten into his flesh had already healed. “Just cut the inside of my mouth a touch,” he said, smiling and doing up his belt, sliding off the bed.

The witcher lay down flat and sighed. “Must’ve been really good, then.”

“Best I’ve ever had, in fact,” said Regis. Geralt may have been the first human he’d received oral from, but after such a violent climax, he most definitely wouldn’t be the last.  

“I’m flattered,” said Geralt, drawing the blankets back over his chest. He cocooned himself in them. “Thank you for the experience. It was… enjoyable.”

“I should hope so,” said Regis with a chuckle. “After that, well… if you ever decide you wish to give up witchering, I will always be here.”

Geralt looked amused. “If you pay better than what I’m currently doing, I’ll consider it.” And with that, he turned over to indicate an end to their conversation.

Regis left the hut only after Geralt’s breathing had evened out, which happened startlingly fast, as though he could sleep on command. And perhaps he could.

He spent the day in the crypt, resting, and returned to the hut come nightfall.

Geralt was nowhere to be seen, and nor were his belongings. He had left a scrap of paper in the middle of the bed, which had been neatly made.

‘Thank you’.

Regis pocketed the paper and, after a while, managed to convince himself not to go chasing after the witcher. He wouldn’t uproot his life to go chasing after someone who would probably try to kill him upon finding out what he was and what he had done. He couldn’t.

He wasn’t likely to see the witcher again, and perhaps that was for the best.

* * *

He did, in fact, see the witcher again. Over half a century later, the man came upon his solitary crypt with a flock of refugees and dwarfs and called to him, “Come out. I won’t hurt you.”

Regis had, after some hesitation, and recognized the witcher immediately. It would have been hard not to, given how often he had heard the White Wolf’s name mentioned in song.  He had, admittedly, made an effort to keep track. He had remained fond of the little wolf witcher despite their abrupt parting.

Geralt didn’t seem to recognize him. No surprise there, with how haggard and old a solitary life with but a smattering of contact with humans had made him. The life he now led was his penance for all the death he had wrought as a younger vampire.

“Gentlemen, I propose that you put away your weapons,” he said in a calm voice, gazing at the witcher’s company. He spotted refugees off in the distance and a very colourfully dressed young man. “You will not need them,” he continued. “As you can see, I do not wear a sword. I never do. My name is Emiel Regis and I come from Dillingen. I am a surgeon.”

Slowly, the witcher and dwarf did as he asked. Once Regis could be certain he wouldn’t be subjected to an attack, he turned to Geralt and offered him a thin-lipped smile. He had grown weathered and broad-shouldered in their time apart. His eyes appeared almost as old and tired as Regis’, despite being significantly younger. But Regis could still see the little wolf he’d once been beneath it all, and he couldn’t help a rush of affection.

“It is good to see you again, little wolf.”

It took a moment, but recognition slowly dawned on Geralt’s face. Geralt smiled. Regis decided, then, that he would not leave this man’s side. 

He may have been a little bit in love.

**Author's Note:**

> [Beautiful art](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/halfaboat/170673166556) made by Halfaboat on Tumblr!


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